


Stockholm Syndrome (2P!FrUK)

by Angleterre97



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angleterre97/pseuds/Angleterre97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the heart evolves for both captive and captor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stockholm Syndrome (2P!FrUK)

Oliver woke to an empty bed. This wasn't uncommon though, he had become accustomed to Louis being an early riser. He stretched as he sat up. He loved that he could do something so simple, it had been a few months since he had been trusted enough without the handcuffs. Some mornings he would still wake tied up, but that would only be due to the adulterous acts from the night before. Satin ribbons didn't bruise his wrists as much as cold metal had. Throwing the sheets away from his naked body, Oliver padded to the bathroom. He showered, then after drying off and combing his hair he applied his cover-up. Another luxury he had earned. Louis hated the taste of make up, and for weeks and weeks made him wear nothing but his hideous freckles. Oliver was overjoyed when he had found the small concealer kit on his nightstand one morning. After dressing, he made his way downstairs. It was getting late in the morning and his captor was probably getting hungry. He was an early riser and a horrible cook on top of it. The kitchen was devoid of human presence when he walked in, Louis being no where in sight, most likely in his study. Oliver simply took out a pan and began rummaging for ingredients, the normal routine he had found himself falling into not long after arriving. He, unlike Louis, loved to cook.

As he whirled about the kitchen, the young Brit reminisced. It had been almost a year since he was taken away from the world he had known. The whole thing happened in a blur, and he could recall every exhilarating moment of it.

It had been a blustery day as Oliver had been hurrying down the steps to get to the subway. Him and his brother had gotten into a horrid, nasty fight, and in a rare fit of anger he had rushed out the door. Mind clouded with frustration, the man with the entirely odd pink hair, lost his balance as a particularly strong gust pushed upon his back, sending him tumbling down the steps. Consequently he fell right into the legs of an unsuspecting bystander, knocking him clean off his feet.

"I..I'm so terribly sorry Mister! I didn't mean to I promise." 

"Why don't you watch where you're going? Get you're head out of the clouds."

Oliver only nodded, knowing that this rude stranger was probably right. As he stood he brought a hand to his head, it throbbed something terrible. He turned to offer the man he had barreled over a hand, but he was already up pacing to the platform. Oliver groaned, wondering how, if at all, this day could get any worse.

"Your head is bleeding you idiot." Oliver had heard this as he searched for any place to sit or stand on the crowded train. He turned to see the man he had ran over standing behind him, holding onto one of the rails. "It'll get infected if you leave it like that to long."

Again, all Oliver could do was nod. "I know." He replied. The man looked at him curiously. He was disheveled. His blonde hair was light, long, and messy, his face was stubbled and altogether he looked like he didn't get nearly enough sunlight.

"Where are you going?" The man had asked Oliver, who stumbled for an answer.

"I..well I haven't the faintest idea. Anywhere and nowhere I suppose."

The man made a noise that sounded like a mumble or a grunt and was then silent for the rest of the ride, until the train came to the stop that must have been his.

"Come on," He said to Oliver, who just looked at him bewildered. "Come on moron, you're head is still bleeding, you look more like a freak than you already would have with that hair."

In all honesty, Oliver was rather offended, but he followed the stranger anyways. Perhaps for this he was a moron, but his head hurt immensely, almost as much as his heart.

"Where are we going?" He asked as he was lead to a car that he presumed to be the man's. He got in on the opposite side. "My name is Oliver, by the way."

"Louis," The man responded, getting in on the drivers side. "My Place, I have bandages and that sort of shit."

Oliver cringed at the language the man, Louis, used. But he was helping him, even after he had knocked him to the ground, so he said nothing as they drove in silence. As they went Louis lit a cigarette. Oliver sighed quietly to himself. His brother smoked as well, a nasty habit.

When the car rolled to a stop, they were outside a house on the outskirts of the city. Just barely on the border between rural and urban. The house was large, almost ominous from the outside. It hadn't taken to dreadfully long to get to from the station though. Louis lead the way inside. It was cluttered and smelt of stale wine and cigarette smoke and just the slightest hint of roses.

"This way." Louis mumbled as he made his way to the staircase. Oliver had figured out that he was French from the few word he had said clearly, and he followed the Frenchman up to the second floor.

"Wait in there." Louis instructed, pointing to one of the rooms. As he walked in he looked about at the large space that appeared to be a master bedroom. The walls were a deep shade of burgundy and the drapes across the two large windows were almost maroon in color. The bed with its headboard pushed up against the right wall had a canopy, draped in dark purple. The colors all didn't go together, but at least they didn't really clash.

"Sit down on the bed." Oliver turned to see Louis standing in the doorway with a first aid kit in his hands. Oliver did as he was told, and soon the gash on his head was being mended.

After that day he had rarely left that large, ominous home. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have trusted a stranger, shouldn't have gone with him to his house. Taken 'aspirin' when it had been offered...

The next morning he woke handcuffed to the very same purple-draped bed alone. He was terrified and confused, but his arse didn't hurt, so that was something. Later, after what seemed like forever, Louis had come in and explained things to Oliver.

"I don't think I'm going to let you go." And of course Oliver pleaded to know why.

"Can you cook?" He nodded.

"Do you clean?" He nodded once more.

"Do you have family that's going to miss you?" Oliver faulted on this last one. Would he? His parents despised him for always being so different from his brother and his brothers, well...

Oliver shook his head. He couldn't lie, no one would miss his presence."They'd probably all welcome my absence..."

That day felt like it had happened ages ago. So much had changed. He remembered the first time Louis had taken him. It had been almost a week after his arrival. For the first few days all he did was clean and cook. He couldn't leave the house, he'd tried all the doors and windows to no avail. He figured that's all he was wanted for, a servant Louis wouldn't have to pay. Sure, he made Oliver sleep in the same bed with him, handcuffed, but the gruff Frenchman always rolled as far away from the Brit as he could. He figured it was just one more security measure to keep him from running. One night though, he didn't cuff him. He didn't stay rolled to one side. Oliver squeaked as he had been pinned down. Louis bit down hard on the frightened man's neck nearly drawing blood, only to quickly release his flesh.

"Are you really wearing make up?" He had asked, clearly disgusted. Oliver nodded, far to frightened to speak.

"Don't wear in anymore. You're going to shower tomorrow and wash it all off." It hadn't occurred to Oliver how long it had been since he had bathed.

"Alright..."

The first time had been scary. Louis was a rough lover, especially to someone who had never experienced anything of the sort. They young Brit had screamed in agony and ecstasy. He longed for it to stop, but then he had never been touched in that way before, and silently begged for it to never end.

Oliver recalled, as he flipped the omelet he was cooking in the skillet. How utterly mortified he had been to think such thoughts about the man who had violated him so harshly. Now, so many months later, he had no problem admitting that Louis was a monster in bed...and that he enjoyed it fullheartedly.

After that, Louis had wrapped his arms around the smaller man, as if he'd slip away as he drifted off to sleep. Oliver trembled in his hold, nearly in tears. He couldn't understand this man, his captor, his master even. That night he had cried himself to sleep and woke the next morning, handcuffed and alone. And his arse hurt like hell.

"You look like shit." The Frenchman had said as he came back to the room some time later.

"Well of course I do! You-you touched me, I didn't sleep, my arse hurts like...like..."

"Like hell?" 

"Yes! Why did you do that?"

But he didn't answer, just undid the handcuffs, offering a hand. "You wont be able to make it to the shower on your own."

Oh how frustrated he had been! Now though, of course, he understood all of this quite well. The man was lonely and broken and saw an equally broken person in himself.

Oliver had let himself be carried to the bathroom where a bath had been run. Louis set him into the hot water and even helped to wash away the cosmetics. He always looked so angry, but in that instance, Oliver couldn't read his face.

Over time, his fear subsided. He came to terms that he was never getting out of this house, and he lived with it the best he could. At least once a week Louis still wanted sex. After a time, Oliver gave up fighting, even began anticipating it. It pleased Louis, which oddly enough to him, pleased Oliver as well.

With breakfast finished cooking the young man loaded it all onto a tray. Carrying it carefully Oliver made his way to the Study, a room he still wasn't technically allowed to be in. Louis was very clear about him never going in there, but the man had to eat. Some days he would rarely emerge from the small room, so Oliver had taken it upon himself to go in. The first few times he had gotten screamed at. Oliver smirked as he walked, recalling the first time he had ever screamed right back.

"What have I told you, you fucking moron? Stay out of my study!"

"I wouldn't have to come in here if you came out once in a while."

Louis had flashed an irritated glare.

"Just leave the food and get out."

Oliver had half a mind to do as he was told. "No, I will not."

"Excuse moi?"

"I-I said no. You need to eat and I want to know what you do in here."

"It's none of your business."

"Isn't it? I live here too you know!"

"No, this isn't your home, I permit where you may or may not go. Do not mistake this for what it isn't."

They had stood there and argued for what felt like forever, the food Oliver had prepared grew cold. In the end Louis had simply picked the smaller man up and set him outside the door, shutting it with a bang. Oliver still considered it a victory though. He had finally stood up to Louis without being hurt. It was a step forward for the both of them in his mind.

Now though, the study was empty.

Odd, Oliver thought to himself as he set the tray down on the most uncluttered surface he could find. This was where Louis was every morning. He went into the hall and knocked on the door to the bathroom, but nothing. He went throughout the whole house, even out back in the garden, but the man was no where to be found.

The young Brit, though a bit put out, didn't think much of it. Sometimes Louis would do this. He would sometimes just leave for a few days. Oliver had no idea where he would go. The first time it had happened, it had surprised him.

It had been such a joyous moment. He had woken up to no handcuffs, and when he had showered, gotten dressed and went downstairs, he had found no Louis either. He began cooking as usual, but when the food was done and he began to look around for his captor, he realized, with a start, that he was alone. Adrenaline rushing, he tried the doors and window, not surprised to find them still locked from the outside. But without anyone in the house, who would really hear a small window break...

He searched around and found a heavy green glass ashtray, one of Louis' favorites if he recalled right. I can do this! He told himself. He could finally be rid of this horrid, horrid place once and for all. All Oliver would have to do was heave the object at the window...

But he never did.

For whatever reason, Oliver couldn't bring himself to do it. It felt wrong to him. A month or two ago he would have done it the moment he had the chance, but now...well it just didn't feel right. He had held the ashtray for what felt like forever just staring at the dirty glass. Oliver himself didn't even understand it. Why on earth couldn't he do it? Well, it would be horribly impolite to break something and run off, he finally decided. He didn't think he had the courage to look any deeper into it.

Three days later, Louis returned. Oliver had been in the kitchen when he heard the front door slam shut. His heart raced as he had heard the approaching footsteps, and the moment he saw the man enter the room he had leapt forward to hug him. Moments later he pulled himself away, silently surprised and mortified at such a desperate, childishly impulsive act.

"I um..I'm sorry. Welcome back..."

Louis only grunted as he slung his coat onto the back of a chair and lit a cigarette.

"Did you make dinner?"

Oliver nodded. It was silent as he had continued to cook. He wanted to know where Louis had gone, why he left and so on and so forth, but couldn't bring himself to ask. It was silent, also, as they ate, and silent still and as Oliver cleared and washed the dishes. As he did so, standing at the sink, he could feel his captor's arms wrap around his waist, hot breath ghosted over his neck. He had shivered, oddly happy that Louis had missed himself just as much as he would never admit that he had missed him. After that night, the Frenchman no longer made Oliver wear handcuffs to bed.

Oliver returned to the study after searching the rest of the house. He would just have to eat by himself he decided, picking up the tray. As he did, a piece of paper detached itself from the others and floated to the floor. Slightly annoyed, Oliver set the tray down again and picked up the paper. Chancing a glance, he saw it was a note. And upon closer inspection he saw that it was a note meant for himself.

Dear Oliver,

Leave. I've kept you in my house long enough. I'm sorry, I never should have made you stay in the first place. Take your shit, whatever you have, and get out, the front door is open. Consider yourself free, and if you rat me out to the cops, consider yourself dead. 

Louis Bonnefoy

P.S. Merci.

Louis returned home four days later, to a house he had hoped would be empty. He opened the front door and walked into the living room. The carpet had been freshly vacuumed. He went upstairs to change, tired of the clothes he had worn for the last week. As he did so, he noticed the basket of folded clothes that had recently been brought up. When he entered the kitchen a few minutes later, a hot meal waited on the stove, the pink haired man he had kidnapped months and months ago standing tiredly next to it. It looked as though he hadn't slept for days. When Oliver saw Louis, he smiled wearily.

"Welcome back."

Louis looked at him with a heavy, hard gaze not uncommon for him. He turned away, stalking to his study. He returned moments later.

"I told you to get out."

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"Don't play stupid," The Frenchman growled. "You read the note I left for you."

"Oh...was that...was that you who wrote that?"

"Who else would have? I signed it."

"I'm sorry...I didn't think it was you, it was so poorly written compared to your stories or poems..." Of course though, Oliver knew exactly who had written it.

Louis, Oliver had found out, was an exquisite poet. He had chanced upon a crumpled piece of paper in a book he was reading and on it were the most beautiful of verses. Searching around and sneaking into the study, he had found more. Pages and pages of verse and prose. Some had dates and some had titles.

The note he had found a few days ago had no title, and held no beauty in his eyes, only horror and sorrow.

Louis moved forward and took hold of Oliver's arm, rougher than the Brit had anticipated, and began pulling him towards the door.

"I told you to get out of my house, now get out!"

"But..but why?! Louis please stop it!" Oliver struggled against the other. Four days had worn by so slowly, and now suddenly everything had begun to move fast, far to fast, and not in any direction he wanted to go. Oliver grabbed hold of the couch, desperate to hold his ground.

"Please Louis, I don't want to leave!"

"That is exactly why you have to go!"

"What?" The smaller man looked back, clinging to the couch for all it was worth. "I-I don't understand what you mean."

Louis glared at him and released his grip. Without a word he turned at went up the stairs. Oliver was dazed. Eventually he released his death grip on the worn piece of furniture and tiptoed upstairs. Whatever is going on, we can talk it out, he told himself. When he got to the bedroom, where he assumed Louis had slithered off to though, he let out a strangled yelp.

"What are you ding with all of my clothes?!" Or more, the clothes Louis had over the last few month brought home for him.

"I like bright colors." He had told the Frenchman after the first few pairs of plain shirts and slacks had been tossed at him. "They suite me more."

Now they were all being harshly stuffed into a duffel bag.

"Louis stop it! What's gotten into you?" Oliver moved forward, pulling the bag away from the other. "Can't we talk about this?"

"Non."

"Why not?!" He was confused, he was desperate, he was frantic. "Am I doing something wrong? I can fix it I swear! Just tell me. If it's more sex you want then fine, we can do that, or..or if it's-"

"Oliver, just stop."

He was on the verge of tears, this couldn't be happening, it just couldn't!

"Go home." Louis said sternly. "You're family will be happy to know you're alive."

The pink haired man clung to the duffel bag in his arms, as if it were a life line. "I don't care about them."

"That's not true."

"But they don't care about me!"

"That's not true either and you know it."

He set the bag back on the bed and began putting his clothes back in the drawers and closet, where they belonged. Louis watched on annoyed.

"I'll just contact them then, and tell them where I've been. I can tell them we eloped or something..." Oliver smiled up at Louis, a small, tired, force smile he prayed would appear genuine.

"Oliver, you need to go."

His smile faltered, he was trying dammit, why wouldn't Louis just give up?

"I wont tell them you kidnapped me, they don't ever have to know."

"But we aren't married, Oliver."

"I know that."

"We are never going to be married."

"I-I know that..."

Louis sighed. How had he let this get out of hand. The moment he realized he had made a rash decision he should have been rid on the pink haired man, all those months ago. What had stopped him? The sex? The food?

"Oliver, you love me." It was a statement more than a question.

"Yes, I do." He turned away from the dresser, facing the scruffy man, his head low. "And I know that's why you're trying to get rid of me."

Never once had he told the man he loved him. He knew if he did, it would spell out the end. The day he couldn't smash the glass and run he knew. He knew something had turned, and he knew that if it came out, it was all going to be over.

But now, it hardly matter.

"I know you only think of me as a toy or a slave or whatever, but you can't say that you haven't grow even a little fond of me..."

He must have. He had stopped using the handcuffs, he had given back his make-up, he had trusted him alone in the home.

"You don' have to love me back, just..just..."

"Just shut up."

Oliver hadn't even noticed the Frenchman's advance as he rambled, now finding him right before him. Louis kissed him, hard and commandingly. He held the smaller man close, there would probably be bruises on his shoulders. He pulled him onto the bed with him.

To put it simply, he had lost.

Lost his composure, lost his temper, lost control of a little emotion called love. He had made a mistake with Oliver, he would rot in some special region in Hell.

The note had failed, just as he knew his own will would confronting his lover. Not his hostage, his lover.

His resolve cracked as he pulled every article of clothing from the other.

Every shred of dignity stripped away as he lavished the pale, freckled skin he had grown to adore with kisses, nips, and bites. Oliver hadn't put on his make-up, he'd been hoping for this.

And as the smaller man moaned his name, wantonly, like he was the center of his entire world, Louis knew that at this game he had set himself up from the start, he would always lose.

"You are going to contact your family." He said as his fingers found their mark, stretching and prodding. "And you tell them whatever the hell you want, but you aren't going back."

Oliver gasped and groaned as the fingers left his body, only to be replaced with the most amazing feeling he had ever felt. It was sex, but it was love. It was real love, finally.

"S-silly," He stuttered out and his lover, not his captor, filled him to the hilt. "That's what I've been trying to say."

In time, the night becomes just another memory to think back on.

The inevitable results of Stockholm Syndrome.


End file.
